


i drag the river and you're still there

by albion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ADWD spoilers, Afterlife, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Death, Gen, M/M, Post ADWD, Reconciliation, Regret, i needed them to have a happy ending i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/albion/pseuds/albion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s dark and stormy; the night Theon Greyjoy finally breathes his last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i drag the river and you're still there

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from "Some Flowers Bloom Dead" by The Wallflowers, which has now become my official Robb/Theon anthem.

It’s dark and stormy; the night Theon Greyjoy finally breathes his last. He’s an old man now, an old crippled man, never the King of Salt and Rock, never the Son of the Sea Wind, never the Lord Reaper of the lands of his own birth.

 

He’s long since reconciled those things, though. It doesn’t matter now. Not when he hobbles around with a cane to help him walk, when young boys laugh at his brittle teeth and thin hair. Jeyne never minded much. Even Sansa only regarded him with a sad smile, when they first met again after she had gone down on that fateful trip to King’s Landing with Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark.

 

If only Ned hadn’t agreed to become Hand of the King. Perhaps none of this would have happened.

 

 _You’re being a fool,_ his brain tells him. Even if Ned had refused, Cersei would still have had Robert murdered. Renly and Stannis and Joffrey would still have all claimed that same goddamned iron seat, and his father would have still risen up again in rebellion.

 

But Robb. What would he have done? If his father hadn’t been betrayed and executed, would he have still called his bannermen? Would he have still gone to war? Would he have still been betrayed by those bastard sons of whores the Freys and the Boltons?

 

Who knows. It’s too late now, at any rate. _Look at yourself now, Theon Turncloak. The years have turned you into a speculative old woman._

 

When Theon Greyjoy lies down on his hard bed and falls asleep for the last time, he opens his eyes again to see nothing but white.

 

For the briefest of moments, he panics, thinking he’s back at the Dreadfort, and the past decades have been nothing but a lucid dream.

 

But no, the Dreadfort was always dark. Never white. Never.

 

Theon lifts his head, and that’s when he sees him.

 

He’s as young as the day he died.

 

 _Robb,_ he thinks, gut clenching and bile rising to his throat. _Robb._

 

Robb approaches, and Theon shrinks back in fear.

 

“What do you want?” he rasps from a hoarse throat. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I never meant to betray you. I-”

 

Robb crouches down next to Theon and he stops talking. Robb is still young and handsome, but there’s a faint red line across his neck, just above his collarbone. It’s jagged and looks painful, even though Theon knows it’s not.

 

Theon swallows. “Is that where…?”

 

Robb looks down at himself almost in surprise, and then back up, a faint half grin on his lips. Theon hasn’t seen that grin in nearly half a century, and looking at it is like looking at the sun.

 

“Hello, Theon.” That _voice._

“I’m sorry Robb. I’m sorry for everything.”

 

“Are you? Are you really?” and _damn,_ if that tone doesn’t hurt.

 

“I didn’t kill them. Those boys weren’t your brothers. Your brothers escaped. We killed the miller’s sons and pretended they were Bran and Rickon.” He’s talking quickly, awaiting the blow, waiting for the moment when Robb would pass judgment and send him down into the darkest reaches of the seven hells.

 

“I know.” And Robb’s voice is soft.

 

“…you know?”

 

“Yes. But that’s not what I’m asking. Why did you betray me, Theon? You swore once, that we were brothers. Did your vows mean nothing?”

 

Theon swallows a sob, but the tears start spilling anyway. Robb reaches out a hand to wipe them away but Theon flinches from the touch. Robb pulls his hand back.

 

“I had to choose. I had to choose between my captors and my true family.”

 

“Is that all we were? Your captors?”

 

“No. And I realised that afterward. Ned Stark was my real father. Catelyn was my real mother. And you… you were my brother. And I chose wrong.”

 

Theon looks up from Robb’s boots to Robb’s face, and he feels ashamed for crying in front of him like some emotional fourteen year old girl, but he can’t help it.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

Robb stands up from where he’s been crouching, and reaches out his hand. Theon takes it, and Robb pulls him to his feet. The movement is stiff and Theon nearly falls over where his mangled feet and remaining toes don’t quite reconcile properly with the ground, but Robb’s hands hold him firm.

 

Still young. Ever young.

 

“I’m an old man now, Robb. An old, decrepit man falling to pieces.”

 

Robb doesn’t say anything, but takes in Theon’s white and thin hair, the gaps between his teeth, the missing toes and fingers.

 

“I never wanted Bolton to do that to you. They sent me part of your skin, you know. Before they betrayed and murdered me and my mother and my men.”

 

Theon nearly retches.

 

“I wanted to die with you. I never wanted to die old. I wanted to be at that wedding, fighting with you, falling with you.”

 

“There’s not a whole lot we can do about that now though, is there?”

 

“I guess not.”

 

“I told them, ‘I don’t want his skin. I want his head.’ I did, in that moment. But it doesn’t matter anymore. You’re home.”

 

“Home?” Theon croaks. “I don’t have a home. I never had a proper home.”

 

“Of course you did. Winterfell was your home, even if you were loath to admit it.”

 

“Is this heaven, Robb?”

 

Robb shrugs slightly. “I like to think so.”

 

“Why am I here?”

 

“Because I want you here.”

 

And Theon falls silent. Robb’s hand on his arm is steady as he helps him walk. They hobble together for a while, and Theon wants to laugh. Look at them. Once they were young men, training with swords and practicing their archery in the yard, even if Robb was always better with a sword and Theon was always the better archer.

 

Suddenly, Robb throws back his head and he whistles once, sharply. His hair is still burning, dark red.

 

Grey Wind appears, trotting up to meet his master. He paws at Theon’s left hand where it hangs down almost limply at his side, before turning around and trotting off, and Robb follows. All of a sudden from out of nowhere Theon sees smoke, and buildings, and trees.

 

“Is this… Winterfell?”

 

Robb doesn’t say anything.

 

“Why am I here?”

 

“Because I forgive you.”

 

Theon Greyjoy cracks an awkward smile like he used to when he was young, and walks with Robb Stark into oblivion.

**Author's Note:**

> I needed them to have some sort of reconciliation in the afterlife. I needed it. I hope you all understand.
> 
>  
> 
> First GoT/ASOIAF fanfiction, and it had to be these two. Because they just ruin everything. Beautifully unbeta-ed and gloriously corny, as I wrote this at 3:30am after deciding that I just couldn't deal with the angst anymore.


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